


Day 10: Turkey Lurkey (or The One Christmas Patrick Didn’t Get Laid)

by h4t08



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/M, Mostly Crack, Spoilers for the Christmas Special, and a dead turkey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:34:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28218546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/h4t08/pseuds/h4t08
Summary: Patrick comes home to a frustrated Shelagh and a dead turkey.
Relationships: Bernadette | Shelagh Turner/Patrick Turner
Comments: 17
Kudos: 14
Collections: Twelve Days of Turnadette Smutmas





	Day 10: Turkey Lurkey (or The One Christmas Patrick Didn’t Get Laid)

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the new promo making its way around on Tumblr. I’m not necessarily sure why there is a dead turkey on their kitchen table or what could have possibly been said to warrant the heart eyes, but this is what we’ve got to work with and I’m going to work it. (I honestly think SM and LM are fucking with us, but with very little Turnadette to go on, I don’t care!)
> 
> Thank you to @aimeejessica for reading over this. 😘😘

“Shelagh!” Patrick shakes off the lose snow after slamming the front door shut. When he doesn’t hear her, he quickly hangs up his coat and goes in search of his wife. “Shelagh?” Hearing a frustrated huff coming from the kitchen, he makes his way there. “Shel – What on earth!?”

“I don’t want to hear it right now, Patrick.” Using the inside of her elbow, she awkwardly pushes back a lose strand of her hair, which to her frustration, returns back in front of her eyes.

“But there’s a dead turkey on our table.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.” She tightens her jaw. “You think I hadn't noticed?" Her accent is thick as she huffs her rhetorical question. Anticipating a remark from him, she wags her latex covered finger at him. "Don’t you…,” she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, her hand barely an inch from her face. He assumes that if her hands hadn't been sheathed in gloves swimming with dead turkey germs, she would pinch the bridge of her nose.

After ten seconds, he can see her lips moving in silent prayer. That’s usually his sign that she is becoming more approachable.

Sitting across from her at the table, he patiently waits until she is cool, calm, and collected before murmuring over the carcass, “Why do we have a turkey?”

“While at Nonnatus, Fred and I were chatting and I had mentioned how the frozen turkey selection at the grocers was all but nonexistent.” Pulling her gloves off with a huff, she fixes her hair so that all strands are safely tucked away. “Then, this evening, right after you had left, he comes in and drops this… this… _damn_ dead bird on the table. Before I can say anything, he leaves!”

He tries not to laugh, he really does, but it just comes out in fits and snorts until he can no longer contain it.

“I’m glad you're finding this so funny, Patrick Turner.” Her voice is as dead as the turkey in front of them as she pulls her gloves back on with an annoyed snap.

“Darling, you can just toss it in the bin.”

“And waste perfectly good food when there are families starving in the community we serve?”

He pales, the laughter still puttering out now swept out from his lungs. “You're right.” He drops his head like a scolded child.

“I know I’m right,” she throws her hands in the air, “but that still leaves me with a dead bird to pluck and skin.”

“Have you ever plucked and skinned a turkey before?”

“I had with a chicken, but that was a long time ago.” She rolls her eyes as she stands to fetch the kettle of boiling water. “Thank goodness the children are asleep.”

“What are you doing?” his eyes are trained on her.

“I don’t have a pot big enough to dump this turkey in, so I have to pour the water on so that I have any chance of plucking out these feathers.”

“Really?” She looks at him with a dead cold look and in response he bows his head and stares at the claws on the feet. With no other reason than to make his wife laugh, his fingers itch to reach out.

“I swear, Patrick, if you touch this bird, you will be sleeping on the sofa.” Her warning sent a cold chill through the air. She is obviously not in the mood for him to play silly buggers.

Pulling his hands into his lap, his fingers try to find something to fiddle with as he watches his wife fully commit to the job at hand. With precision, she pours the hot water over a certain area of the turkey and, one by one, she plucks out the feathers and sets them in a paper bag by her feet. After a while, he repeats the motion in his head.

_Pour, pluck, drop it in a bag._

_Pour, pluck, drop it in a bag._

Finding that he is becoming quite drowsy with the pattern, he glances up and takes in the sight of his wife. _My god, even elbow deep in dead turkey, she’s gorgeous._ He can’t help but to appreciate the draw of her brows as she concentrates on the task at hand, her lips pursed, her little button nose scrunching when a feather is being quite unruly.

There have been many times he has seen the same expression on her face; during a puzzling case, or when a patient is being quite difficult, or when the children are being disobedient.

_During sex_.

His body perks at the last thought, his mind automatically thinking back to their last tryst which happened to be in the car.

She had, for some glorious reason that he would never question, climbed onto his lap and had taken the reins. _She was_ …, he laughs under his breath, _she was magnificent._

“What are you laughing at?”

With the sharpness of her voice cutting through his lusty memory, he decides to go with the ignorant route. “Huh?”

That only seems to anger her further. “What are you laughing at?”

With nowhere else to turn, he blurts out the first thing he can think of, “The last time we made love.”

Placing the tea kettle onto the hot pad, she squints her eyes and murmurs in a low, dangerous voice, “That was funny to you?”

All laughter leaves him in one fell swoop. _Good job, Patrick._ “No.”

“Yet, you were laughing.”

God, does he know that he’s now in the thick of it. “I wasn’t laughing, ha-ha, it was more of a nice memory.”

“Oh, really?” She picks up the tea kettle and resumes her task.

“You never cease to amaze me with your boldness.”

“You never cease to amaze me that, uhh,” she plucks out a stubborn feather, “you are flirting with me with a dead bird between us.”

“For some, absence makes the heart grow fonder. In our case, it’s a turkey carcass.”

Placing the kettle back onto the hot pad, she leans back into her seat, her lips pressed in a fine line to keep herself from laughing. “That was quite awful.”

He leans forward with his arms perched against the edge of the table. “But it made you laugh.”

A small giggle leaves her perfect lips, her blue eyes now twinkling under the low light. “Only you can make a joke like that while I am performing an autopsy on a damn turkey.”

“I must say,” he knows he’s pushing his luck, but he doesn’t care, “you look quite sexy doing it.”

She stares at him as she runs her hands along the feathers, visibly trying in earnest to figure out if he was being serious or facetious. While he knows that he was being as serious as a heart attack, he’s not going to deny that he is enjoying the playful way her lips curve along her cheeks.

And just like that, in the span of a second, the energy between them sizzles, the air electric. Drawing her eyes down the clothed curves of his body, he wishes with everything that he holds dear that he was naked and that she was naked and that there wasn’t a dead turkey between them.

“Patrick?” Her voice is husky as she attempts to clear her throat.

Right now, she can ask him to do anything and he would do it without hesitation. He loves his wife and he strives to show her the depths of his love every day. “Yes, darling.”

“Go to bed.” With a small smirk, she picks up the kettle and goes back to her work of plucking feathers.

“What?” He feels at a loss and ready to throw that damn bird out of the window.

“You’re distracting me.”

“You were quite mad when I had come in.” He crosses his arms along his chest in protest.

She gives him a patient smile, one that he has been on the receiving side numerous times. “You are distracting me. The quicker I can finish this, the quicker I can take a shower and join you.”

“Ah!” Abruptly standing from the table, he clasps his hands in front of him. “I will be waiting for your presence with bated breath, my sexy turkey-plucking wife. However,” it’s his turn to wag his finger at her, “if you are not up there and freshly showered within two hours, I will be coming down here to throw that damn bird away.”

She slowly blinks in understanding. “Good night, dearest.”

He gives her a kiss on the cheek. “I will see you soon, my darling.” 

**Credit** : To the always fabulous **[Miss_Ute](https://miss-ute.tumblr.com/)**

**Author's Note:**

> After staring at the gif some more, I am now under the impression that Shelagh is sewing the turkey together. For what? God (and Heidi) only knows. (I swear the American PBS better air this scene!) For the sake of this story, I changed it to her plucking out the feathers.


End file.
